Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

“He holds his sons to higher standards than most noblemen do,” she said. “If he appears dissatisfied with your accomplishments, it is because he believes you are capable of greater things. He is exacting, yes, and some people find him terrifying. But everything is so clear, is it not? If you have erred or displeased or disappointed him, he says so, plainly.”

“Plainly and at length,” Darius said. “If he hears about the state of my road and your accident—” He broke off with a short laugh. “Why do I say ‘if’? He’s bound to hear of it. If no one else tells him, my grandmother will. She hears everything—and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“That’s very likely,” she said. “But you must not mind what they say. The accident was not your fault but mine. The road is bad, yes, but it is not as though I’ve never driven on rutted roads before. This is the country, after all. The trouble is, I let my attention wander.”

Being so fair-complected, she colored easily. He was not surprised to see her blush this time, but he was surprised to see the rosy tint swiftly drain away, leaving her ghostly white. Her lips compressed in a tight line.

“You’re upset about the horse,” he said.

“Yes, yes!” Her eyes glistened, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to weep. She clenched her fists. “I cannot believe I was so stupid and careless. I failed her, poor thing. They trust us because we teach them to do so. We make them our responsibility. Belinda trusted me to look out for her, and I betrayed her trust. I was not paying proper attention—and now she is h-hurt. And Fewkes might have hurt her worse.”

“A small hurt,” Darius said, surprised at this out-pouring of emotion. “And your groom would not have let Fewkes hurt her. Jenkins would risk his position to protect the animal, I have no doubt. You must not fret about what might have happened. You know what ifs are pointless.”

“What ifs,” she repeated. “Yes, yes. Futile.” She swatted at her eyes and essayed a smile. “Never mind. I feel like a fool, and I hate that.” She looked about her. “Where am I going? The house is the other way.”

“I wondered about that but said nothing, on the chance you were leading me astray,” he said.

“Astray?” Her voice climbed in pitch.

“A man can always hope,” he said.

Her color came back, a delicious pink. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Never mind.”

She turned abruptly—too abruptly, because she stumbled, her heel catching on the hem of her dress. Trying to pull her foot free, she tore the hem. Her boot snagged on the torn cloth, and she tripped, pitching sideways toward the gravel.

He moved to catch her, but her flailing arms got in the way and, trying to avoid getting knocked in the eye, he trod on her skirt, ripping it more. She shrieked and jerked away, throwing him off-balance, but he managed to grab her as they both went down. He hit the gravel, and she landed on top of him simultaneously, her weight thrusting him harder against the small, sharp rocks.

For once, thanks to Goodbody’s patient obstinacy, Darius was wearing a hat. Though it tipped over one eye, it stayed on, sparing him a bruise to his head and perhaps a concussion.

Not that he had time to care about bruises or concussions or the gravel digging into his backside.

They’d scarcely hit the ground before she was struggling frantically to get up. She’d fallen cross-ways on him, and when she tried to get off, he heard a ripping sound.

“Get up,” she snapped. “You’re on my dress.”

“I can’t get up until you get off,” he snapped back.

“Move your leg, you idiot!”

Impatient, she yanked at the dress at the same instant he shifted his weight. The dress came free abruptly, throwing her off-balance. She toppled backward, legs waving comically. Her dress slid back, revealing not only dirty boots but a good deal of stockinged leg.

He had no time to admire the view—or even to laugh at it, though she reminded him of an overturned turtle—because he was too busy trying to protect himself from those flailing limbs. He grabbed her fist before it could hit his face.

“Let go!” She kicked and squirmed. “Don’t touch me!”

He clamped his free hand over her mouth. “Stop shrieking, you idiot!” he said. That was all he needed: to be caught with her in a compromising position. “Someone will hear.”

She wasn’t listening. She was too busy wriggling this way and that, blindly kicking and hitting.

Fed up, Darius let go and tried to push her off.

She flinched at his touch and hastily struggled up onto all fours. She ended up straddling him—and that sent her into another flurry. In her clumsy haste to crawl off him, her knee landed on his groin.

He doubled up, gasping one short, very old English and most ungentlemanly word.

Through the miasma of pain he heard, “Oh, sorry. Sorry.” He felt more movement as she shifted her weight. Then the knee, carrying all her weight, landed on his thigh.

He said the word again, with more feeling.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.”

He really had to kill her.

He untangled himself from the skirts and frenzied limbs and staggered to his feet. He didn’t wait for her to stand. He hauled her upright, grasped her upper arms, and shook her. “Calm down, curse you!” he snapped.

She stilled. She flashed him one of her murderous looks. She opened her mouth to say something.

He let go of her arms, clasped her face between his hands, and clamped his mouth on hers to silence her.

She froze.

He froze.

Then, Oh, hell, he thought.

And he kissed her.

Chapter 6

Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me.

Don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t touch him.

In the instant they fell together onto the path, an image flashed in Charlotte’s mind, a picture from another life. She, so young, so happy for a time, tumbling with Geordie Blaine onto the grass, laughing.

And in the next instant, Get up get up get up, was all she could think—as far as she could think.

After that, it was all chaos and panic and trying to get away because she couldn’t trust herself with this man.

The world had lit up when Mr. Carsington strode into the stable like a golden god, so tall and beautiful and so utterly sure of himself. Even the uneasy horse quieted at the sound of his voice.

Charlotte hadn’t quieted. Her heart had leapt at the sight of him, lightening with relief because she knew he’d know what to do. He’d settle everything and save the horse.

Her heart had pounded, too, and not with relief but with something less innocent, because he was beautiful, and she wasn’t a good girl.

He was bold and improper and he made her want to laugh.

And now he was too close. He smelled like a man, and the scent was maddening. He felt like a man, and she ached for a man’s body against hers.

Hold me. Touch me.

Don’t don’t don’t.

Don’t kiss me don’t kiss me don’t kiss me.

She beat her fists on his sides, then his back, but it was a sham, a joke. His big, capable hands were warm on her face. It had been too long since a man had held her so, her face cupped in his hands.

Turn your head away.

How could she?

He kissed her, and she tasted summer and freedom and the youth she’d lost. One tantalizing taste of him, and a place inside her opened, a great emptiness she hadn’t realized was there.

She clenched her hands, trying not to touch him, but his mouth gentled on hers, and she tasted a sigh, or felt it. Her inner tumult began to quiet, and she felt a quieting in him, too, as he seemed to hesitate, to slow and pause. It was as though he’d felt something, too, something surprising.

It was his hesitation, perhaps, that made her heart give way. She felt it unfurling, even as her fingers uncurled and she rested her hands on his chest.

Only for a moment.

Only to feel it a little longer, the sweet wash of pleasure, the warmth of wanting and being wanted. She wanted to pretend for a moment that all was right again, and this was the forever she’d dreamed of long ago: to be held so, in strong arms, where she was cared for and safe. To be kissed as though she were the only girl in the world.